Written Reality
by TeaLovingAmerican
Summary: Tom Riddle is trapped within a diary. Harry Potter is trapped within his life. Both boys are alone, isolated by everyone around them. When a seven year old Harry Potter comes across a leather-bound journal within his school's library, he might just get what they both want most.


**Author's Note**: I've been contemplating actually writing a Harry Potter fanfiction for quite a long time. I had three different ideas, although now I can only recall two of them. I'm not fond of OC Harry Potter stories so I decided to scrap the other plot bunny I had that dealt with Hagrid and a line from Tom within Chamber of Secrets ("…on the other hand, big, blundering Hagrid, in trouble every other week, trying to raise werewolf cubs under his bed…"). I thought it would be a sort of cute story to actually write of a young Hagrid hiding a child under his bed that turns into a monster every full moon. The other two ideas were this one, and another that had to do with Harry and Tom. I really wish I could remember that one, but unfortunately I can't for the life of me. I was also rather worried about joining in the Harry Potter Fandom on this site once again. I used to be a beta reader for someone on here on my other account and I sort of disappeared without any warning, leaving the poor girl on her own. I felt terrible about it, but I was too much of a coward to come back. Anyways, enough of my whining and on with the story. Enjoy.

* * *

"Pray that your loneliness may spur you into finding something to live for, great enough to die for."

-Dag Hammarskjold

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Written Reality

Prologue

Once Upon a Time

Harry James Potter, a young boy of only seven, had a very repetitive life. Every morning he awoke to his aunt rapping upon his cupboard door, yelling for him to wake. He would then clumsily put on his oversized hand-me-down clothes from his cousin only to stumble out of his cupboard to prepare breakfast for his unappreciative relatives. He would cook to the best of his abilities, which would often earn him burns seeing as he was only a boy of seven who was nowhere near a master in the kitchen, and then take the insults his uncle, aunt, and cousin would come up with at such an early hour of the morning. Harry would then grab his ratty backpack with quite noticeable holes that his aunt had bought for a few pence out of a charity shop and leave the Dursley household of Number 4 Privet Drive to walk to his school, St. Grogory's Primary School.

Once arriving at St. Grogory's, Harry would attempt to sneak past his cousin, who was driven to school by his father, and his cousin's gang who loved nothing more than to torment the boy. On a lucky day, Harry would arrive in his classroom without any new bruises, however on most days, Harry would arrive with more of his collection and rebroken glasses. The boy would then pay attention in class and understand everything to the best of his ability, only to purposefully fail the exams. He knew his uncle and aunt would be most displeased if he ever did anything better than their son. Harry would be mostly free of ridicule within class, seeing as Dudley, his cousin, sat on the complete opposite side of the class, so he would be relatively safe until the lunch and recess bell would ring, signaling the time where the students were free to do as they pleased.

Harry would then be forced to go without food, as his cousin would immediately chase him out of the lunchroom if he even attempted to get lunch. He was relatively safe for the first fifteen to thirty minutes of the lunch hour. He was alone, yes, but he was still safe. That would quickly change once his cousin and his friends finished their lunch. The gang of bullies would then begin their favorite game they called 'Harry Hunting', which consisted of the group chasing young Harry around the schoolyard until they finally caught him and had their fun of punching and kicking the frail boy. On rare occasions, Harry could stay safe until the bell rung that signaled the end of the lunch period, running fast enough away from the larger boys.

Harry would then return to class, usually nursing a hurt body part, and would remain silent until the final bell rang. Harry would then be at the mercy of his cousin and his gang once more. The game of Harry Hunting would continue until Harry's uncle would finally come to collect Dudley from school and Harry could make his way back to the Dursley residence. Upon arriving at the house, little Harry would immediately be yelled at by his uncle for taking such a long time on the way to the house, and would often be sent back out to walk to the barber shop to get his hair trimmed. After all of this, the young boy would then do all of his chores, including tending to his aunt's garden, washing the dishes, doing the laundry, sweeping and mopping the floors, and wiping the windows. His aunt would then make dinner and would allow him to eat a small portion which Dudley would often steal from the small boy. Harry would then be locked in his cupboard for a few hours of restless sleep, only for the pattern to repeat the next morning.

It was on one of these most normal and common days that he found it. He had been awoken by his aunt as per usual and had managed to cook breakfast in his drowsy state, slightly overcooking the sausages which earned him a loud earful from his displeased uncle. The young boy had then sluggishly cleaned up after his relatives and clambered out the door on his way to school. He had avoided attention for the first half of the day and he was beginning to think today might not be as terrible as usual when he was cornered by his cousin and friends. And thus, a game of Harry Hunting commenced one that Harry would look back on for many years to come.

* * *

Dirt and gravel flew up from under small feet as his heart rammed hurriedly within his chest. His breathes came out in gasps and his legs were on fire but he couldn't afford to slow down. He knew if he slowed down even just a little, the ratty friend of his cousin, a boy named Piers Polkiss, would undoubtedly catch up to him. And if there was one thing Harry knew for sure, it was that if he was caught, he would suffer in pain. Harry Hunting was Harry's very least favorite game.

_Run. Run. Run._

Harry sprinted around another corner of the school building, feet skidding out from under him on the damp grass and it took all his practice from this very deadly game for Harry to stay upright. Knobby knees brushed against each other as he ran and his frail form could be seen running past many younger and older schoolchildren. A few spared him a quick glance, but most acted like they couldn't see him. Harry didn't blame them, not really. He knew firsthand how scary his brutish cousin could be. Having grown up in the shadow of the terror Dudley Dursley and his parents, he knew quite well that _normal_ _good _children would do their best to stay away from him. After all, no matter how hard he tried to be good and obedient he knew he would always be a _bad freak_.

Harry quickly rounded another corner, his labored breath coming out faster. He had to get away. He didn't chance a look behind him for fear of slowing down. Instead he trained his ears behind him, trying his best to block out his hummingbird beating heart to instead listen for the padding of five sets of feet behind him. Harry was relieved to hear them farther behind him but he didn't stop, oh no. Stopping would mean forfeiting and forfeiting would mean extra pain for being a coward. And Harry James Potter was no coward.

_Faster. Faster. Faster._

Harry dodged two students who were taking a walk, ducking behind them and running faster, his legs burning even harder as he rounded another corner and then another before he quickly ducked into a small alleyway between two of the school buildings, clutching onto the rust colored bricks so hard that cuts opened up on his small palms. He did his best to quiet his labored breathing and steadied himself against the brick wall. He had been running at his fastest for too long; his whole body was exhausted.

The seven year old closed his eyes and huddled close to the ground in the small alleyway, listening. Not too long after he had quieted, louds footsteps rang out on concrete, running right past his hiding spot. Harry let out a silent sigh of relief but didn't move until it had been at least five minutes since the danger had passed. Finally gathering enough courage, the young boy peered out from the alleyway. The frail boy was immensely glad to see that the coast was clear.

Harry tentatively looked at the building that had saved him and nearly laughed at the irony. The building he had been leaning on was the school's library, one of the only places in the school where he was given relative peace. The librarian was an old lady named Ms. Treyton who always wore, in Harry's opinion, gaudy floral patterned dresses and the stereotypical librarian glasses. Not that he minded all that much. No, Harry was quite fond of the old lady. Even though she would glare distrustingly at him often, no doubt from the rumors his Uncle Vernon had spread within the school about him being bad, but she never told him he couldn't check out a book or hide within the numerous shelves when Dudley's gang was after him.

Harry pushed his own taped up and cracked glasses higher on his nose as his large emerald eyes took in the library. It really was one of the most magnificent places Harry had ever seen. Not that that really counted much, seeing as the Dursley's didn't approve of him going any place nice. But Harry knew that this place was special to him and he was quite content to browse the shelves and hide himself within an area that he knew his cousin would never look for him. After all, Dudley Dursley hated books.

The small hands of the boy traced title after title as he strolled through the shelves. Harry was shocked when he first joined St. Grogory's and he had been told he could borrow books from the school library. He hadn't understood it. Uncle Vernon always told him if he received something, he had to pay for it twice over. Just like how he paid the Dursley's for putting a roof over his head and clothes on his back and food in his stomach with his chores. Not that he particularly _liked_ his roof being a broom cupboard under the stairs infested with spiders or his clothes being hand me downs from his cousin that were five sizes too large or his food being rare and only what the Dursley's had leftover. But he knew that he had to pay them with his chores all the same and so he did. So when his first teacher brought his class to the library and explained that they could borrow books without doing anything in return, except, of course, bringing it back within the two week time period, he had been absolutely floored.

Needless to say, the boy had used the library to the fullest of his ability, and he prided himself in never turning a book in late; although once, Dudley had purposefully hid one of his library books and it would have been late had he not been forced to clean Dudley's room. He didn't want to dwell on the thought of if he hadn't found the book in time. He had no money to speak of. He was an orphan and according to his Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia, his parents had been jobless nobodies who were partiers and alcoholics and he was no better. Harry had tried to please his aunt and uncle but over time he came to accept the fact that they were right. He was a _freak_. He never meant for odd things to happen around him, but they always did. And as such, he should be glad to have what they gave him. He didn't _mean _to be ungrateful, no, but at times he would often wish some unknown family member would take him away from the Dursley's and treat him like his aunt and uncle treated Dudley; like a member of the family, like a son.

But more than anything, the green eyed boy wanted a friend. Dudley and his friends, Piers, Dennis, Malcolm, and Gordon, made sure that everyone in the entire vicinity of St. Grogory's Primary School knew that they thought Harry was a no good freak, and everybody knew to stay away from him in case Dudley's anger turned on them. Not that anyone had really attempted to be his friend before Dudley made it obvious what he thought of the Potter child. No, he was much too small and frail with oversized broken glasses and a frightened deer in the headlights look. He hadn't even known his own name when his teacher had first called it in his first year of school. The Dursley's had always called him either freak or boy, but never Harry, his true name. Yes, from the beginning the other children seemed to know there was something different, something odd about him. And because of his strangeness, he had never made one friend. Even his teachers sneered down upon him, most likely from hearing nasty rumors spread from his Uncle Vernon. No, Harry was always alone.

He learned very quickly that loneliness hurt unlike any pain his hefty cousin and his gang could ever hope to cause him. More than any burn he had ever gotten while cooking the Dursley's their breakfast. More than bites from his cousin's Aunt Marge's bulldogs that were sent after him on the holidays.

It was a pain within his very heart, his very being.

The seven year old grimaced at his thoughts before he brought his mind back to the books that were in front of him. There was no point thinking about his pain, he reminded himself. He planned on finding a book to escape from the pain of his reality once more. He was well above his age group's reading level after having spent so much of his free time within the library's walls. He purposefully failed the reading aptitude tests his teachers gave out of course, knowing full well not to outshine his cousin Dudley, but that didn't mean he would actually refrain from actually learning. No, he just chose to play ignorant and stay smart, the safest approach he saw.

The raven haired boy's eyes scanned spine after spine of books that inhabited the school's library. Many of the titles called to him, but something inside him seemed to tell him to wait, that there was a book he was meant to find. The emerald eyed boy didn't question the feeling, just as he didn't question almost everything due to what his uncle and aunt had drilled into him. No questions was the first thing Harry had learned and he learned to not even question that. He knew he should feel angry that he was kept ignorant, but he couldn't bring himself to hate anyone, not even those that should deserve it such as his relatives.

Little legs weaved through the shelves while large, bright eyes searched for something, but what he was searching for, Harry couldn't say. Something was in the library shelves, something calling out to him. Not verbally, Harry was sure, because he didn't hear anyone other than Ms. Treyton and himself within the library's walls. It was more of a feeling beckoning him onwards. The boy couldn't explain it, nor did he plan on it in case it was more of his freakishness.

The youth paused as his eyes passed a certain book within the shelves. Nestled between two books entitled _Nicholas Nickleby _and _The Lazy Tour of Two Idle Apprentices_, was an old leather-bound book without any writings upon its spine. A small hand reached forward for the decrepit book, though Harry himself wasn't fully aware of it. His fingers brushed against the faded leather spine of the small journal and the boy swore he could feel a strange thrum against his hand, almost as if the book had a heartbeat. Harry pulled his hand away hastily, emerald eyes widened in disbelief before he slowly reached out to grab the journal.

Holding it in his hand, Harry investigated the small book. Although the leather was cold to the touch, something about the small book just _warmed _his small hands. The leather was a dark green, so dark, in fact, that Harry thought it was black at first glance. Small, intricate, gold trimmings framed the sides. Harry was sure he had never held something quite so beautiful. Bright emerald eyes widened when they found a small inscription upon the cover. Fancily written script spelled out a name in the bottom right corner.

_Tom Marvolo Riddle_

The small boy's fingers traced over the words in awe. The name seemed to strike a cord within the young boy. He felt as if he had heard the name somewhere before, as if the name meant something to him. Harry mentally shook himself and opened the small journal in expectation. All of the excitement that had welled within the small boy immediately rushed out in disappointment when he found himself staring upon a blank page. Harry turned the page but to no avail, as the next page, and the next, and even the one after that, was just as empty as the first. The small boy let out a sigh as the beautiful journal seemed to be nothing. He made something out of nothing once more and all it led to was disappointment. Sad emerald eyes looked upon the front cover and trailed over the name once more. The name was just so _familiar_. The name sent a warmth throughout his body, as if he was remembering a fond memory.

Harry thought it best to ignore the feeling the small empty journal gave him for the moment, but he couldn't bring himself to put the book back upon the shelf. He noticed for the first time that the book was not marked as part of the library's collection. The boy puzzled over the fact before deciding to bring the book to the librarian. Small feet left the back of the library, with all intent to bring the small book to the elderly librarian. The dark haired youth weaved through the large shelves littered with books. Just as he passed the non-fiction side of the library, the old librarian came into view.

Today, to Harry's amusement and slight disgust, the elderly lady was wearing a deep maroon colored dress with designs of marigolds climbing up the right side. It was one of her better dresses and didn't make the young boy want to run at one glance. Ms. Treyton reminded Harry of his Aunt Petunia with how skinny the old lady was. She was rather frail, but her eyes were young. Not in the happy, bright, young feel that were in the students of the school's eyes, but in the way that she knew and saw anything. She was always one step ahead of everyone. Her face was taut and severe, and Harry was certain he had never seen the elder smile. As the dark haired youth walked up to her, the librarian paused in her reading to look at the young boy coming towards her.

"Another book, Mr. Potter?"

Harry paused in his steps in slight trepidation. Shaking himself a bit, he continued forward and stood on his toes to be able to place the book on the counter. He pushed the leather-bound journal closer to the woman before stepping back onto his full feet and looked up at the elderly librarian.

"Ms. Treyton, is this one of the library's books?" the young boy's voice shook in his embarrassment. As the seconds went by, he was less sure of his resolve to ask the elder about the journal. The longer he thought about it, the more sure he was that this was a mistake.

The librarian glared at the boy over her glasses, eyes calculating, before picking up the small journal. Her deep blue eyes pierced the book before beginning to flip through the old pages. Upon looking at the empty pages, the librarian's constant frown turned fiercer and she gave the seven year old boy a nasty grimace.

"Mr. Potter what use could the library possibly have for an empty book. Besides the obvious fact that we have not marked it as being owned by St. Grogory's. This book is probably some student's notebook that they never used," she tossed the book at the boy, which he scrambled to catch, fumbling with the journal and nearly dropping it, before continuing, "You can keep it if you must."

A part of the boy's heart soared at the librarian's last claim. He could _keep _the journal. It could be _his_. Harry wasn't sure what brought the emotions on, but he suddenly knew that he wasn't ready to part with the journal. He had never owned much, that was true. He owned a few of Dudley's broken toy soldiers and model air planes but that about all of his material possessions besides his few hand me down clothes. Of course he had wanted things before. It was natural, the boy knew, to want more than you had. But this wasn't the kind of possession he felt over the small journal held in his hands. The warmth that seeped into his hands gave the boy a feeling of comfort and _belonging _that he couldn't quite grasp to understand, nor did he care to for the moment.

But the small amount of happiness he got from the librarian's words quickly left as he thought over her words more. She said the journal was probably someone else's. Harry had known that, he was sure, from the start. But that didn't stop the feeling he got from the book that somehow the owner was _him_. But he couldn't take this journal if it was someone else's. Not only would that be stealing, someone might care for this book deeply. The name on the cover that called out to him, that Tom Marvolo Riddle, the journal was probably his. Harry didn't deserve a book quite so beautiful anyways, the young boy thought sadly as he looked up at the dark blue eyes of the librarian.

"I'm sorry Ms. Treyton, but this is probably a student's, like you said. I can't quite keep something I know that doesn't belong to me," Harry mumbled out to the elderly lady, hands gripping onto the book's leather longingly. He truly wished to own the book but he couldn't keep it away from its original owner.

The librarian's eyes bore into the young boy's that were looking down at the journal in his grasp. The elderly woman's grimace softened until it was only a small frown before she let out a tired sigh. The pitiful seven year old's eyes looked up hastily at the sound.

"I have never come across a student with the name Tom Marvolo Riddle in all my time as librarian, Mr. Potter. Besides, if the owner hadn't even felt the need to use the book, it probably wasn't very important to him. You are free to keep the book," the old female's voice was stiff and showed the young boy that she meant what she said with no arguments allowed.

Harry was floored. The librarian was a strict, no-nonsense kind of person, who never condoned anything, let alone stealing. Yet here she was, telling him the journal was his to keep. Harry's heart immediately began soaring once more. Surely if Ms. Treyton gave him permission, it mustn't be too wrong to keep the journal. The librarian was an adult after all, so Harry was supposed to do as she said. The boy's emerald eyes gleamed as he smiled up at the elderly female.

"Thank you so much Ms. Treyton," the dark haired youth chirped, only to receive an annoyed huff as an answer.

The boy looked back at the book in his hands in wonder as he felt another thrum go through the leather. The boy had the strangest notion that the book itself was happy that he was in possession of it. Harry smiled down at the book once more before the bell rang out and brought him out of his daze. He quickly bid the elderly woman goodbye and darted out of the library to his class, all thoughts of Dudley, the Dursleys, and schoolwork far from his mind. The book happily tucked under his arm was the only thing he could think of.

Throughout the rest of the school day, the seven year old boy was able to ignore the taunts from his cousin and his friends, and by the time he returned back to Number 4 Privet Drive, he was in too good of a mood to be bothered by his large list of chores or his equally large uncle's verbal abuse. The leather-bound journal hidden among his second-hand schoolbooks within his tattered bookbag inside of his cupboard was the only thought that crossed the small boy's mind. Nothing else mattered to the raven haired youth. And as he lay down to sleep that night, the boy took out the journal and hugged it to his chest, enjoying the warmth that spread through his small, frail body at the book's contact. For the first time in years, Harry James Potter fell asleep with a smile upon his face.

* * *

Tom Marvolo Riddle was a clever boy. He was always ahead of his everyone around him so it was no surprise to him in the slightest when he first came across the ideas of Horcruxes and decided he would make one. It was, however, a surprise what exactly awaited him after the making of a Horcrux. He hadn't expected to be split literally in half. He hadn't expected to be a living, thought-producing being trapped with a mortal object.

At first, his other half would write to him. At first it had been invigorating to speak with his other half. Someone exactly like him, with his entire mental capacity. A true conversation was something he had been denied for years.

But he began noticing something about his other half. His rationality was slightly less than his own. Something was off about his other half. Something was gone.

At first, Tom thought long and hard about what could possibly be wrong with his other half, what was missing. Then, over time locked within empty pages, he figured out what was missing from his other half. _He _was missing.

He tried bringing the topic up with his other half but was astonished when his other half thought _him_ the one with his sanity lacking. Shortly after the argument with his other half, his other half began writing less and less to him.

Soon writings to Tom became completely sporadic and spaced out before they ended completely.

For a long time, time was Tom's only companion. He had been betrayed by the only person yet to betray him; himself.

It was cold within his empty pages. There was no other way to describe the feeling of utter aloneness the boy was put into. Did he regret setting the Basilisk loose? No. Did he regret making a Horcrux after the Basilisk killed the Ravenclaw girl? Most certainly.

Tom was in a constant sleep-like form. There was nothing else for the forever sixteen year old boy to do when he was trapped within his paper prison without a companion.

When Tom awoke to a hand along his prison's spine, he felt so much more emotion than he had since before he had been trapped within the pages. The hands that held his diary within them were small and warm, so very _warm._ Tom's entire essence was filled with relief and joy to be found by _someone_. Anyone.

For the first time since his other half had abandoned him, Tom Marvolo Riddle felt whole.

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**End Note**: Well there you have it. I wanted to have this up on September 1st as that _is _the start of Hogwarts, but I suppose September 2nd isn't quite so bad. I hope to get the first chapter up before my birthday on the 10th. I actually am really looking forward to writing this story. Young Harry is absolutely adorable and Tom's original personality is a Sociopath. I'm not sure if I'll give him a conscience or not as of yet, however. I apologize if I mess up anything that has to do with British customs or money or measurements. I _am_ American, after all. I also apologize if you see anything that reminds you of another story or book, if so it is completely coincidental and nothing more. Oh, and if in case you didn't know, I own nothing except the plot of this story and maybe some background characters like the librarian. _Nicholas Nickleby _and _The Lazy Tour of Two Idle Apprentices _are written by Charles Dickens (Or co-written in _The Lazy Tour of Two Idle Apprentices_'s case) and were merely chosen based on the sole fact that I'm reading _Oliver Twist _at the moment. And of course _Harry Potter _is owned by the goddess J.K. Rowling. I can't quite decide Tom's eye color seeing as J.K never mentions it other in terms of 'dark.' I've narrowed it down to blue, green, and red. I'm leaning more towards red. I've also been having trouble with deciding where Harry will end up in terms of Gryffindor vs. Slytherin. Will you guys let me know what you think on the matter? If not, I may just send the boy to _Pigfarts_ on _Mars _to be dealt with by _Rumbleroar._


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